


of caves and contusions

by ApresMidi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Caves, Explosions, M/M, Near Death Experiences, No Major Character Death, OCs - Freeform, Scenes of a slightly sexual nature, Viclock, Violence, close to death, hypnoxia, set during the hiatus, they survive somehow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2060850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApresMidi/pseuds/ApresMidi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about Turkey, Victor ruminated, was the heat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of caves and contusions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earflaphat](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=earflaphat).



Hello!  
Thanks for reading this fic, I hope it doesn't disappoint.  
Notes at end. 

Tw:injury and angst/distress. No major character death.  
I DO have a distressing habit of flicking between tenses. Sorry but I'm not sorry.

Dedicated to earflaphat, on tumblr.

 

[20:16pm]  
[17.8.2011]

This wasn't how Victor had pictured dying. 

He'd pictured it a lot, over the years. Caught in terrible situations, prisons, camps; he'd nearly always reached the point where his imagination had wondered how it was all going to end.

But all of those had involved guns, and bullets or a quick snap to the neck. God knew he'd whiled away hours, envisaging how one particular guard or another would drag him out, would hang him, would shoot him whilst he was looking another way. 

He hadn't pictured it happening like this. Not slowly, almost peacefully. Not with Sherlock, curled up at his feet, already semi unconscious. He'd always imagine a visible, tangible enemy, and it was almost laughable now, to think about their situation, to think about how he'd always worried so much about a human beating him. Beating them.  
No, this was much worse.

 

[13:01]  
[17.8.2011]

“Victor, c'mon.”

“No.”

“It's the only route. Unless you want to take an extra six hours to reach Konya, as well as enjoy being ambushed on the main routes, then we're taking the tunnel system.”

“I don't like it.”

Victor's reservations were not entirely unfounded. The tunnel system in question was ancient, and obscure, and not all all well preserved. And it creeped him out. He remembered being 7, and gangly, and getting caught in one of those enclosed slides, and trying to extricate himself, the cloying panic, the absolute darkness. No, it wouldn't have been nice.  
And yet..

The ongoing conflicts were already making this difficult enough. The thought of adding the extra hours was disagreable, and risky, and goddamit, Victor was tired, and he knew Sherlock was more injured than he let on. The tunnels were a safe base to rest, and heal for a little while, whilst avoiding the busy towns and tolls. 

 

Sherlock could see him make the decision, and a rare smile graced his lips. “We need to head south east.”

\- - -

The thing about Turkey, Victor ruminated, was the heat. It wasn't 'oh,it's a bit humid' or 'wow, it's sunny'. It was just constantly, interminably hot. The heat never seem to leave you; it followed you everywhere, into the house, into cool showers, even lying sprawled out, naked, with a fan on, it was always lingering, always clinging to you. Perhaps proper hotels had decent air conditioning, but for him, and Sherlock, staggering from contact to contact, the heat seemed to be their greatest enemy, sapping their strength and their focus.  
\- - -  
“You said south east.”

“I have never said any such thing.” Sherlock, of the two of them was suffering the most. He'd sustained a heavy blow to the left shoulder in the town previous, and whilst Victor had ascertained that it wasn't broken or dislocated (that had been a fun evening,) it was tiring him, and by extension, tiring Victor, making the team about 75% less effective. Sherlock had refused to lighten his backpack by giving some to his partner, but Victor had transferred some water from the detective's to his, and the horrible thing was, that Sherlock had barely noticed. It was still far too heavy for the wound, and they were losing ground, and losing motivation, and that was what had sparked the tunnels idea; a place for them to rest, and to gather their thoughts for a few hours. Finding the place couldn't come soon enough. It wasn't, funnily enough though, well signposted, and they both felt like they'd wandered off the map miles ago. 

“This is your fault,” Sherlock snarled, loudly, unexpectedly. Well. Someone had reached their tolerance breaking point. “I told you to look at the directions and you refused. Now we don't even have a reference point to base our location off of, and we're lost, and we'll-”

Victor had pressed a kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth, silencing him. They were both shattered, and Victor knew better than to take Sherlock at face value in such a state. They'd both had a rather traumatic past few weeks, full of blood and violence, and god, were they both desperate to get home.  
“It's ok, Sher,” he murmured, holding the other tightly. “We'll find it, I promise. Just look, now!”

The sun had moved, and suddenly it was glinting off something in the hazy distance, that looked like metal. A lock. On a door.

“Now, I don't want to get our hopes up,” he said quietly, voice low and soft. “But we're in the right area, and we may as well head for that. It's the only bloody landmark around here.” Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath as they headed off, walking ever more into the blistering sun.

 

Amazingly, the glint of metal does indeed turn out to be the gate entrance to the tunnels. It's old, and rusty and going inside goes against Victor's every instinct. But Sherlock's right there, and he's fiddling with the lock and he needs this so much. They both need it, but it's because of Sherlock's situation that they're there, his injuries that need to be rested and Victor loves him far too too much to let his fears prioritise over Sherlock's necessities.

“Facilis descensus Averno,noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis;” he murmurs as he takes the lead, torch giving them a little light. Sherlock scoffs.

\- - -

The descent wasn't easy. It was cold, and dark and incredibly narrow at times, particularly for two tall, solidly built men. Some of the rooms and chambers they came across are almost pleasant; tall, light trickling through, spacious, but Sherlock insisted they had to keep going, that they're not safe and they carried on through, 'twixt more tiny shafts that Victor almost had a panic attack through. Then, Sherlock had to soothe him, taking the lead, and looking at him when possible, touching as much of his skin as he can whilst they wriggle through. There were only a couple of spaces that bad, but it was a couple too many. Finally, eventually, in a small, circular clearing, underneath a strong ventilation shaft, Sherlock decided they could rest, could pass a few hours catching up on sleep and food. Privately, Victor thought it was because he was too tired, in too much pain to carry on himself but he said nothing, merely smiling and making grabby hands for the tin of beans. At some point, with no idea of the time, they curl up together, fingers entangled, and fall asleep. 

\- - -  
It's not even the blast that wakes them, although they hear countless others, later on. They sleep blissfully through the shaking ground, somehow, the screams of nearby citizens. No, what wakes Victor, is the sound of the grate above them falling to pieces, almost tinkling as they fall. Clink. Clink. Clink. The sound bothers Victor as not right, even in his dormant state and he wakes, and just about refrains from screaming, the cut off yell stirring Sherlock, too.

Something's happened to the cavern. 

Sherlock's eyes are flickering around, picking up pieces of information, details, putting together whatever's happened but Victor holds up a hand,prevents the upcoming monologue. He needs to feel, to sense, because it's not over; whatever it is- is not done. 

“Sherlock,” he mutters, voice low, urgent. “When I say ...”  
And Sherlock, bless him, nods, takes everything Victor says, and implies at face value, which is oddly touching, even at a time like this.  
“Okay,” Victor says softly, after a few minutes. “There's still an odd-”

And everything goes excessively loud, and blindingly white.

\- - - 

Oh, hell. This – is not good. This is about as bad as things can get. Victor has no idea exactly how long he's been out; at this point in his career, he can estimate it was between 25 and 45 minutes, but he's still not sure. And looking round , time will be of essence.

Half of the chamber – the side with the door and the air vent, has … well. Caved in. Been blocked solid. No way out, and as he explores, it begins to dawn on him that no way out means no way in. And not just for people, for oxygen, too. He feels a rising panic, one that threatens to claw up and out of his throat, a horror that must be tangible to Sherlock.  
Sherlock. Where's Sherlock? He chokes down the sickening fear and looks around, sees the detective stirring, blood dripping from his head. Not good.  
“Will, darling,” he murmurs, checking his pulse, his breathing, his pupils. “Can you try and sit up a bit, for me? Something's going on, up top. Not necessarily someone after us, but we've been caught in it. We need to recover and get out of here, fast.”  
Sherlock nods, presses a cloth to his cut and watches Victor pace around, checking the walls.It's only after a few minutes that he speaks, voice rough and lacking strength.  
“Don't- don't move so much,” he says, blinking blearily. “It'll – use up the oxygen. Should sit still.”

And that- that does still Victor. Hearing those words, from that mouth; it's enough to make it all seem incredibly real and terrible, and oh god, he's actually going to die but he can't even save Will.  
He sits heavily, looking at nothing in particular, and Sherlock wriggles forward, kisses him gently on the mouth, and wraps his arms around him. 

Somehow, hours pass. Sherlock desperately tries to get the radio on his phone to work “then- then maybe someone will find us, and they'll fish us out' whilst Victor explores a little more. There's a moment when they think they honest-to-god think they're saved, when Victor and Sherlock together wriggle a little rock out of place, but icy, numbing water starts to gush out and they're forced to replace it, Sherlock muttering glumly about disturbed water reservoirs. Victor's known his lover long enough to be able to follow and he silently translates : if they move more, a wall of water will hit, and they won't be asphyxiated, they'll drown.

 

\- - -

“We trapped,” Sherlock said flatly. “We can't leave.”  
Victor turned and tried to put on a brighter smile. “Not necessarily. Something might give way, if there's another blast. And your signal thing is beeping. We've got a chance.”  
Sherlock regarded him flatly, his mouth turning up at the corners in a half smile. “You know, for a spy, you're terrible at lying.”

More time passed and the cavern began to feel increasingly uncomfortable to stay in- it must've been a few hours, now. Maybe up to 6. The air felt hot, and thick, and Victor's thoughts and brain began to feel sluggish and slow. He had to call Sherlock's name twice to get him to look up, but then maybe he hadn't even spoken the first time?  
“Getting a bit close in here, Will,” he mumbled, stripping off his shirt. “Who'd have known that too little air can make you feel so boiling?”  
Sherlock nodded, trying to focus intently on Victor from where he lay, attempting to conserve energy. He felt drained, and headachy, heart beating fast from very little movement. He wanted to correct Victor, to tell him that it's not the lack of oxygen that's uncomfortable, that hypoxia would be a perfectly comfortable way to go, but it's the build up of CO2. He settled for “our bodies can't detect oxygen levels' and laid back out, proud of himself. Victor nodded like he understood and walked over to him, legs like lead and swaying.  
He sat, sprawled all over Sherlock and he was faintly surprised – he was only able to gather enough energy to be faintly bothered by anything – when Sherlock's hands run along his waist and now, palming gently at the crotch of his trousers. Victor looked up, and Sherlock, despite being flushed, and and looking pale and weak, had a half smile across his face, as he didn't stop moving his hands, so gently, so lightly.  
“C'mon, Victor,” he rasped, insistent. “We're going to die, in here. Let's at least make it halfway enjoyable.  
\- - -

 

They didn't get off, not really. But they'd rolled around, and kissed until Sherlock had lain back, complaining of the almost forgotten ache in his shoulder, and started to nap. From his only mild knowledge of situations like this, lethargy was a sure sign the oxygen was beginning to dwindle. Victor knew that he had a little more time; he was fitter, for one, and uninjured. But eventually, the levels would get dangerously low, and he'd succumb to the carbon dioxide along with Sherlock. But he couldn't accept that yet.  
He scoured the cave for the umpteenth time, looking for ways out, checking rocks he'd checked again, and again. Nothing new. He couldn't risk pushing too hard, should the walls collapse completely, but then again, then they were in their tomb, regardless. It was frustrating, and agonising and so much harder than having a physical opponent to fight, a weapon to disable, something to out run. No , his only opponent was time itself, and from what he knew, no human had ever really succeeded with that.  
He roared. He shouted and roared, and hit the walls of the cavern. It wasn't fair. Not now, not like this. Sherlock throughout only made a wordless sound and rolled over, which made things worse, in Victor's mind. Sherlock was dying. Sherlock was giving up. No. NO. How had he allowed this? Taking a few steps back to Sherlock, he saw his phone, caught under the detective's body. It was still flashing, still valiently trying to give their co ordinates to the higher ups. Fuck it. He may as well try. Picking it up -Sherlock know barely made a sound as Victor manhandled him, too deeply asleep- and placing it as high up as he could, he gave it one last glance, sat again next to Sherlock, pecked him on the forehead, and shut his eyes, giving into the headache and his fate.

\- - - 

[17.8.14]  
6:00 AM.  
“There's some sort of weird signal.” The young Amnesty International volunteer looks down at her radio, then back around her, then back down. Bizarre. The device is sure that there's a distress signal incredibly close to her, but she's standing in a far bare part of the town, with only an empty crater nearby. Still, she goes to investigate; even goes as far as standing- albeit with trepidation- in the seemingly abandoned disaster zone. But the signal only improves, beeping angrily at her. She whirls around in frustration, cursing at their shitty equipment, when out of the corner of her eye, she sees a half mangled gate. Is that -? Where the hell does that go? Walking closer, she sees the word 'darinkuyu' inscribed very faintly on them, and her hand flies to her mouth, and then to her phone.  
“Guys- we need – it's an emergency. I think someone's trapped in the underground city.”

It takes nearly 40 minutes to reach the right chamber, then 10 minutes to get in. They have to be careful ; a local pipe was destroyed in the raid, and so they can only dig from the left hand side, and knock carefully at the stones lodging them in. Once they reach them – two … english looking men, the girl notes with surprise, it's a matter of utter urgence. Oxygen masks are strapped on them, and they're strapped into ambulances. She sees desparate scenes on rescusciation – one of the victim's was extremely oxygen deprived, and injured too, blood matting his dark hair- before the doors are slammedd shut and they vehicle steals away.

She never sees or hears from them again. 

Well. Not until 18 months later, when the news companies are going crazy over the return of this Sherlock Holmes detective, when she hears a knock at the door. It's weird; a postcard. She's not got any friends away, has she ? Looking at it, it has only a simple picture of the favourite tourist spots in Cappadocia, Turkey, and a simple, handwritten message on the back. In blue, in a neat tidy hand ,the word 'facilis descensus averno, sed revocare gradum superasque evadere at auras, hoc opus, hic labor est' and underneath, in a spidery, messier black ; thank you. SH&VT. 

She looks up the latin, later, and is surprised to find Virgil.

"Easy is the descent to hell; (all night long, all day, the doors of dark Hades stand open;) but to retrace the path; to come out again to the sweet air of Heaven - there is the task, there is the burden." 

She never mentions it to anyone else.

Finis

**Author's Note:**

> Darinkuyu is a real place! It's absolutely fascinating but for artistic reasons, I've had to alter it in the sense that for this, it's abandoned and unkept. In reality it's well looked after, and if you're braver than I , well worth a visit.  
> http://turkishtravelblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/derinkuyu-underground-caves.jpg is the room I sort of imagine SH and VT to be stuck in, although it'd have to be smaller.  
> Speaking of, I tried to be accurate with the oxygen related issues; re anoxia and hypnoxia, and it's true that our bodies only detect levels of co2 and not how much oxygen we have in our blood- nitrogen poisoning is being put forward as a humane way of euthanasia/death penalty.  
> Anyway, another fascinating topic so do google hypnoxia and all that.
> 
> Thirdly, there was a bomb attack in Turkey on the date given, although not in that location.


End file.
